Luminaria
by Twain Sight
Summary: Before the Fellowship departs from Rivendell, the hobbits remember an old tradition that brings light in the darkness. A Christmas Story. No slash. CC appreciated.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own them…wish I did.

**Summary**: Before the departure from Rivendell, the hobbits remember an old tradition that brings light in the darkness.

**A/N**: I am not an expert on Arda; don't claim to be. As a consequence there are some aspects in this wee little fic that are AU or at least questionable. For example, I don't know whether it could snow or not in Rivendell. It seems Vilya stopped extreme weather or something like that. One of you more serious, Elvish speaking fans is going to have to explain it to me. I just made it snow for effect. And because I can *silly grin* . . .and I like snow. I also do not do much with the hobbits as a norm so if they are OOC let me know how to fix it.

I also apologize in advance for any typos etc. I'm homeschooled but my grammar isn't the best =).

OK I'm done now. Here it is in all its glory. . .

**Luminaria**

Frodo strained, relaxed, took a deep breath and pulled again, willing the small wooden toggle to reach its leather loop. But the flap the toggle was sewn to, refused to be pulled any tighter. Exasperated, he flung the toggle (which, being attached to that bothersome flap, didn't go far), flopped backward, thumped his head against the side of the bed, and glared at his knapsack.

It was late afternoon on December 24. Elrond had summoned everyone that morning and chosen the members of the Fellowship that would accompany him to. . . he didn't want to think about it. But he had to.

He closed his eyes, puffing out his cheeks, counting names. Nine companions would journey south and east, representing all the Free Peoples; nine to counter the counter the Black Riders, the Nazgûl, the Ringwraithes.

Frodo shivered. He should not be dwelling on such things, not now, not so close. There was time left, time for light and laughter and gladness before the time for darkness came. And come it would.

A jangle of voices roused him from his dark thoughts, his cousins, and Sam. They were outside, whispering. He heard Pippin start to giggle down the hall, only to be smothered with shushing from the others. Frodo glared again at his pack. Maybe one of them had some room to spare in his pack. At any rate they seemed to be having a better time than he was, brooding to himself.

He scrambled up and made for the door, leaving the smug backpack behind him. He started out and ran slap-bang into someone, Pippin as it turned out, just as the younger hobbit was tiptoeing past the door way. There was a cry of surprise; a rip and a clatter and both hobbits ended up on the floor along with several squat white things. Frodo picked one up. "Candles?"

"Pippin, what—!"

Merry's exasperated voice halted abruptly. Frodo twisted to see two pairs of hairy feet staring back; Merry and Sam's feet as it turned out.

"Mr. Frodo!" Samwise dropped the burlap sack he was carrying unceremoniously on the carpet and hurried to his master's side, "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Sam," Frodo reached down to help Pippin up off the ground. "I just wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright, Pip?"

His cousin nodded but his face looked queer as he back pedaled. "Yes, Frodo. I'm—whoa!"

Sam barely caught the young Took before he crashed to the ground. "H'up you come, Mr. Pippin."

Frodo stooped and picked up the object that his cousin had tripped on. "What are these for?"

Sam and Pippin both immediately looked so guilty that he wondered if one of them had robbed the pantry. Only Merry looked completely innocent. "They're candles," he replied completely straight-faced.

"Yes, Merry, I am aware that they are candles but what are you doing with them? And-" Frodo peered over his shoulder at the burlap sack that Sam had dropped, "is that sand?"

Sam looked up from scooping candles into Pippin's rucksack. "No," he replied weakly.

Frodo felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you lads up to?"

"Nothing," Merry shoveled the last candles into the bag and dragged both of his rosy-faced friends down the hall. "See you at dinner, Frodo."

The hobbit watched the mysterious trio disappear around the corner. A burst of giggles erupted from Pippin only to be immediately smothered by shushing and at least one quickly applied hand.

"What was that all about?" Bilbo was standing behind him, a pipe dangled from one hand, his cane in the other and an enormous red-backed book under his arm.

Frodo saw through the comical perplexity plastered on the old hobbit's face. "I was wondering the same thing. Though it seems one of us knows more than the other."

The familiar crow's feet appeared in the corners of Bilbo's eyes as he smiled. "Possibly."

Frodo sighed and shook his head. "You need to move back to the Shire, Bilbo. The elven idea of hints is starting to rub off."

Bilbo chuckled and stuck his pipe in his mouth. The old hobbit's own face was still pleasant but he watched his young cousin's face closely. The sense of apprehension and dread that had settled on his young charge was not lost on him.

"How are you, lad?" The question seemed to startle the younger hobbit, as though he had been lost in a train of thought.

"What! Oh, Bilbo. . .I'm fine."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows and blew a smoke ring, unconvinced.

"A little tired. And just. . ." he trailed off.

"Worried?" Bilbo supplied. Frodo nodded.

Bilbo inhaled deeply and blew out another smoke ring. "Can't say I blame you, lad. Never dreamed that old ring of mine would cause such a hullabaloo. It's no joke and that's a fact."

He saw Frodo's shoulders slump slightly and mentally kicked himself. Why couldn't he be encouraging for once? Leaving his pipe in his mouth, he gripped his young friend gently by the arm. "Don't let the darkness get to you, lad. Not yet. Not ever. There'll be time enough for that when the time comes."

Frodo hesitated for a second then nodded. Bilbo jostled his shoulder gently. "Good lad."

The old hobbit turned away. "Oh yes—Elbereth I almost forgot—we're dining early in the Hall of Fire tonight. I'm heading there if you want to walk with an old hobbit."

Frodo blinked, confused, "Now?"

Bilbo shrugged, "Request of Lord Elrond if I remember rightly. Hop along then, lad."

Bilbo thrust the Red Book in Frodo's arms and trundled down the hall with his cousin following after him. Frodo glanced out a window as they went past. "It's snowing outside."

Bilbo nodded knowingly, "Aye, it started a few hours ago. We'll have a white Christmas this year."

"Christmas?" Frodo repeated, surprised.

"Yes, Christmas, lad. Don't you know what day it is?"

"Well, I guess it is Christmas Eve. I just. . .with all those going on I thought. . ." he stopped again.

Bilbo watched him thoughtfully, tapping the embers of his cold pipe into his palm, but didn't speak. They continued in this slightly awkward silence as they traced the corridors toward the Hall of Fire. True to its name, a roaring blaze had been kindled in the fireplace, spilling warm orange light around the room. The tall forms of the elves and their guests were seated at the table in the center of the Hall, the gentle undulation of their talk mingled with the soft notes of the harpist seated by the fire.

Frodo and Bilbo joined the trickle of late comers and found their customary seats at the table. The three seats next to Frodo, however were conspicuously empty but he waited to inquire until Elrond had the blessing and the conversations had resumed.

Bilbo shrugged non-noncommittally, helping himself to a dish of steamed vegetables. "Oh, I'm sure they'll turn up eventually. They're probably being held up for some reason or other."

"Like that incident in the hallway for instance?"

Bilbo inclined his head, "Possibly."

Frodo gave up trying to wheedle his old friend and fixed his attention on his dinner. True the old hobbit's prediction, the trio crept into the Hall a few minutes later with exaggerated tiptoeing. Elrond watched for a moment, amusement dancing under his mask of disapproval, then returned to his conversation with Gandalf.

Sam settled in the seat by Frodo and ladled stew into his bowl vigorously. The Ringbearer noticed that he wrapped his hands around the bowl as though to warm them. His nose was red and there were tell-tale wet spots on the shoulders of his coat. "Sam, have you been outside?"

The former gardener glanced at him briefly before hastily looking away again, "Yes, sir. Just enjoyin' this snow, is all."

"And you two were outside as well?" this question aimed at his cousins who had their hands similarly positioned. Pippin immediately looked as guilty as Sam.

"What were you lads up to out there?" Frodo prodded curious now.

"Nothin'," Sam responded quietly.

Frodo raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Merry piped up. "We were just lookin' around, Frodo. It's rather pretty out there with all the white over everythin'. We should all go out later and make snow-hobbits."

Frodo felt a sudden pang as the faces of his three companions turned toward him expectantly. He wanted with all his heart to go outside and enjoy spending time with his friends but the weight around his neck was too heavy for that. "No thank you, Merry. I think I'll just turn in. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Frodo?" Bilbo's hand rested on his shoulder.

He smiled half-heartedly. "I'm fine, Bilbo. I just need a good night's sleep."

He slid to the floor and walked out of the hall, unconscious of the worried glances that were exchanged

The wing of guest bedrooms was on the east side of the Homely House but Frodo, instead of taking the turn to his room, let his feet guide him through the dimly lit halls, lost in his own dark thoughts. He passed several Elves, engaged in various evening tasks and chores, and murmured responses to quiet greetings. But most glided past without disturbing the thoughts of the little Halfling with his great burden, and he did not notice them.

He stepped through a doorway and the chilly air revived him from his stupor. He shivered, dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Abruptly he realized where his roaming feet had led him. It was a room with only three walls, more of a veranda, opening out to the lower gardens. The three walls were covered with grey-hued murals of tall men with pale swords: the men of Númenor, the ancestors of the Dúnedain.

One frieze, larger than the rest, showed a darker image, a tall figure clad in black spiked armor. A man lay on his back beneath him, downed but undefeated. A sword hilt with half a broken blade still attached was raised to ward off the coming attack from the dark warlord.

Frodo knew who it was: Isildur and Sauron. The Ring felt cold against his skin as he thought the name of its master. He shivered again and stared up at the Man in the drawing. He had taken the Ring. He had defied Sauron and come away unscathed. If he could do it…

_But he fell_, a voice inside him remembered. _He gave in. He was a great king of Men, and he could not destroy it. What makes you think you can?_

But the mural hadn't reached that chapter of the story yet. It told a different tale: a tale of victory. There was stubborn pride and defiance in the young prince's eyes. This was before. Before he took the Ring. Before he gave in. He had stood against Sauron and in that moment, that first battle, and he had won.

But for Isildur that hadn't been enough, Frodo remembered. He rubbed the icy lump beneath his shirt. It felt as though the cold was eating into his soul. But he shook himself. "Don't let the darkness get to you," he echoed Bilbo's words aloud, to Isildur, to himself, "Not yet."

"Mr. Frodo?"

Sam appeared in the doorway, his homely face creased with worry. "Is everythin' alright?"

"Yes, Sam. I'll be in in a moment."

The gardener stepped fully out. "No need for that. Here." He handed Frodo his cloak, and he noticed the gardener already wore his.

"I want to show you somethin'."

Curious, Frodo draped the cloak around himself, grateful for the extra warmth. "What is it, Sam? It doesn't have anything to do with all these mysterious comings and goings, does it?"

Sam didn't respond but Frodo saw him blush.

The gardener stepped off the porch and led him through the gardens. Snow was falling, had been for some time, and the trees and bushes were dusted with the fine powder. It crunched beneath their bare feet and landed in their hair and on shoulders. Frodo glanced upwards and caught them on his face and eyelashes, making his eyes blink rapidly in protest. When he lowered his face again, he caught Sam smiling at him. "What is it?"

"I need you to close your eyes now, Mr. Frodo. Begging your pardon."

"Why?"

"Orders, sir. Mr. Merry will have my toes if I don't do things proper."

Frodo closed his eye and felt Sam's large hand take his and lead him onward. Without his sight, he could hear the snow now too, the soft hissing crinkling of falling flakes meeting their kin, mingling and condensing in an effort to cloak the world in a coverlet of white.

"There's up step up here."

Frodo's feet found the step and then the cold stone beyond. There was no snow here; they were under some kind of cover. He could hear breathing, more than just Sam, the delicate rustle of fabric and feel the eyes watching him. "Sam?"

He could hear the gardener shuffling around beside him. "Alright, you can open up, Mr. Frodo."

So he did—and caught his breath. The gardens beyond the little arbor where they stood were filled with light. Paper sacks, the flickering little lights inside glowing gold, lined the walks and paths. Every bench and railing had its candles, not a single statue had been forgotten. Even some of the smaller tree had paper sacks tucked rather hazardously into the crooks of branches. The Elves and other guests in the Homely House stood throughout their faces under lit from the candles they held. Frodo saw Boromir, Legolas, Gimli and his father Glóin. Strider and Lord Elrond's twin sons and even Gandalf; all smiling with the pleasure of surprise

He heard a chuckle and turned. Bilbo sat on a bench, looking heartily pleased with himself. Merry and Pippin were beside him, their breath looking like Bilbo's pipe smoke in the light of the candles on their laps; Pip's little legs swinging underneath the bench. "Are you surprised?" he asked eagerly.

Frodo made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. "I—well, yes, I guess I am. I just—I don't–why—?"

"Because it's tradition, Mr. Frodo." Sam held out a small clay bowl with a candle nestled in its bed of sand, "Surely, you remember? Back home? Lightin' up all those little candles around Bag End. The whole Row'd be shinin' with 'em. Like little winter fireflies. And the lads and lasses would all carry lights around from house to house and sing. Don't you remember?"

There was such honest worry in Sam's voice that Frodo laughed, "Yes, Sam I remember. I just don't understand—why now?"

"Why?" Sam smiled then, a warm happy smile that made his face glow even more in the candlelight. "Why because it's Christmas, Mr. Frodo. And it's a time for lights."

"But why _now_? We're on the brink of making the darkest journey of our lives. We might never see lights again." Frodo stared down at the tiny flickering flame in his hand. A weak flame that seemed to wink and dance on its wick.

"That's exactly why now," Merry responded quietly. He hopped off the bench and looked right into his cousin's face. "Is Darkness coming? Yes. Will it crush all the light in this world? Possibly. Will it start tomorrow? Most likely." Merry laid a hand on his shoulder. "But it won't happen tonight. Tonight we have light and laughter and friends. And there's not a single darkness can touch it."

Frodo stared at his friends, then out at the beings moving through the candlelit gardens. One of the Elves started singing, other voices joined, someone started playing a flute and the melody, solemn and sweet echoed gently through the House, through the light.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam was looking at him, his breath misting, his eyes shining in the candles. He still looked concerned.

Frodo smiled at him, the glow of hundreds of tiny, paper-wrapped flames warming his soul and brightening the darkness in his heart.

"Merry Christmas, Sam," he said.

_i-Methed_

A/N: Holy jumpin' catfish! Nine pages! Did not expect that! I will have you all know that I was up _way_ past my bed time trying to get this all finished.

**Historic Reference**: The title Luminaria is referring to an actual tradition of lighting candles in bags and lining walkways with them. It was supposed to lead the Christ Child to the home so He could bless it. My family still practices this tradition every year. . .even though our sidewalk is pretty wimpy.

**Traditional begs for reviews**: I had over 50 views for _Sound the Bugle_ and only three people reviewed. (Thumbs up to somebody, PeaceLOVEHershey & Lady Maeror). All you other guys, I am really new at this and, frankly, I need all the help I can get. If you see something wrong or in need of improvement, I would rather someone tell me and be able to change it. So drop me a line. I respond to all my stuff ASAP because it means a lot to me.

Alright I'm done. If you read all that you deserve a medal. Until next time—Twain out.


End file.
